


Ballroom Slippers and Bullets

by orphan_account



Series: MCU Drabbles [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: All The Ships, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Drabbles, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Multi, Random & Short, Romantic Fluff, This Is A Shipyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 03:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15964082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Regency England Zombie AU, I don't know, just roll with it.





	Ballroom Slippers and Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> DARCY/STEVE

 

August 1824

Mayfair, London

 

 

Lord Steven Rogers, the Earl of Gatling, leaned against the terrace balustrade and lit his cheroot. He inhaled deeply and contemplated the muted noise coming from behind the glass doors he had just exited.

Despite the dangers, his mother could not be persuaded to cancel her annual celebration of the close of the Little Season in London. It was held at Gatling House every November, before the peerage deserted the city for lavish house parties at their ancestral homes. Not that Steve couldn't appreciate a good time. He just didn't participate with as much zealous disregard as some of his contemporaries. The situation at hand illuminated that. He’d argued that hosting a ball during this time of unrest was too risky, but his mother insisted hiring fifty armed guards should do the trick, and stubbornly forged ahead with her plans.

As if such measures had saved the Prince Regent from being savagely attacked by a ghastly undead creature not three months before during his sojourn to Bath. The fool had dismissed his guards from the bathing hall, deeming himself safe within the steam and vapors of the ancient springs.

Who knew zombies could swim?

The result was that Prinny was locked away in his suite—a slavering, flesh eating monster and the country had fallen into chaos. Well, the commoners anyway. The aristocracy had carried on as usual, throwing their balls and dinner parties. Fiddling while Rome burned and all that, he supposed. Foolishness. The only reason Steve was still in London instead of helping secure his estate against attacks was because the House of Lords, what was left of them, had called an emergency meeting. The Duke of Coulson was quite insistent he attend.

Throwing down the cheroot and grinding it against the slate with his boot heel, Steve sighed. He really should be getting to sleep, in order to deal with the panic that was sure to infest the House on the morrow. Instead he here he was, reluctantly socializing at his mother’s direction, and—

A noise off to the left brought his head up sharply.

A rustling in the bushes, a low moan. It could be one of the stable lads and his paramour. Or perhaps a sick dog. Mayhap a lost cow with... indigestion. What crashed out of the trees not twenty yards from where Steve stood was not a flatulent bovine, however. The bright light of the full moon revealed a shambling corpse with matted hair and ratty clothes.

_Dash it all._

Steve cursed as he fumbled for the knife in his boot and the zombie turned toward the sound, milky eyes searching the shadows of the terrace. How did it make it this far onto the property? There would several poor guards who would have to be hunted down and put out of their misery—but that was later. Now, he needed to stop this thing before it forced its way into the house and set upon the unsuspecting revelers. It finally spotted him and groaned, the hungry sound sending a chill racing up Steve’s spine. He had been a fool to let his mother persuade him not to wear his brace of pistols to the ball.

The monster’s shambling walk pace quickened as it neared the terrace, latching on to Steve’s scent. It lumbered up the steps to where he waited, blocking the glass doors with his body. Steve waved his knife slowly in the air, tilting it to catch moonlight, and the zombie's attention. Better focused on him than on the easy, oblivious prey inside. He may not be sufficiently armed but he wasn’t going down without a fight.

“This was not how I envisioned my evening going,” he muttered to himself. If only James were here. He’d much rather the country’s best rifleman take this thing out from a distance, but Commander Fury had sent his friend on a secret mission abroad that would occupy him for some time yet.

Steve’s attention was jerked back to reality as the zombie darted forward, spittle flying, its outstretched arms a grotesque imitation of an embrace. He dodged to the side, ducking as he circled around and thrust his knife into the monster’s back. It let out a shriek and whirled, almost yanking the knife from his grasp as he pulled it back out with a wet slurp. Blackened liquid coated the shine of the blade, thick and gooey. Steve grimaced, resisting the urge to wipe it off. It was now widely known that if a zombie bit a living person, they were as good as dead. He wasn’t taking chances with the blood alone not being just as fatal. It hadn’t been proven out that the blood itself was not infectious and he was in no mood to experiment.

The zombie lunged forward again, and this time Steve used his elbow to smash in what could barely be called a face, following it up with a powerful stab to its throat. Dark blood spurted out the side of its neck, spraying the glass door and pale yellow brick, but the monster didn’t notice.

It kept coming, darting forward with a snarl.

“Blast it!” Steve scrambled back, attempting to stay out of reach. The cursed thing just wouldn't, well, _die_ , for lack of a better word. He tripped over something unseen behind him and went down. The knife flew out of his grasp, skittering across the terrace. He scooted back, knowing he wasn’t going to have enough time to gain his feet. _Damn it all to Hell and back._ This was not how he wanted to die. Alone on Mother’s terrace, his face eaten off by the undead.

The zombie towered over him, what was left of its decomposing muscles bunching in preparation for what was surely to be the attack that would end his life. Steve was no coward but he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away. He did not want that face, with its milky, rotting eyes and sloughing flesh, to be the last thing he saw.

There was a loud boom, Steve flinching as he was sprayed with bits of gelatinous goo and liquid. A chunk of something hit his cheek and slid down to land inside his cravat. Silence rang in his ears. No more moaning or wet snuffling, only the whisper of cloth against stone.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

Steve’s eyes popped open at the amused feminine drawl. %MCEPASTEBIN%

The hem of a lace trimmed ball gown brushed his bloody boots and the corpse of the zombie that lay at mere centimeters from him. His gaze travelled upward over legs outlined in clinging material, the generous swell of hips, the shapely bosom, the arms that cradled a large dueling pistol as gently as they would a babe. A pistol that looked familiar. In fact, it looked to be one of the two that hung over his late father’s desk, in the library.

Steve’s eyes darted to the lady’s face then, taking in the wide, full mouth struggling not to laugh and the dancing, devil-blue eyes. She cocked her head, arching one arrogant brow as she shook back a wealth of dark corkscrew curls that hung loose to brush the creamy skin of her shoulders.

“Miss Darcy Lewis,” the girl said, nudging one toe against the crumpled body. She tossed the pistol to Steve, which he caught in a reflexive motion, then placed her hands on her hips as she let her gaze travel down, then up his form leisurely. “I took care of your little zombie problem, Lord Kick Arse. The least you could do is thank me.”

 


End file.
